Sketches

Two White Men in a White Room

The countdown clock silently ticked the seconds down. 04. 03. 02. The red numbers read 23:00. 

Donny sat in the chair in the center of the white tile room, stationed next to the table,  and stared up at the numbers, his mouth slightly open. His brow was furrowed in puzzlement. 

“Hey, Mike,” he said to the other in the room, sat across the table from him in a white chair. “Mike,” Donny said again, his eyes still on the clock. “What do you think that’s about?”

The other did not answer.

“Mike,” Donny began to turn his head.

A thick hand slammed palm down onto the table. “God dammit, Donny!” the large man bellowed. “I don’t give a damn about your stupid clock.” He pressed a newspaper out in front of him, and motioned to it. “How am I supposed to pay attention to anything else when they are doing it!”

“Who’s doing what, Mike?”

Mike gestured again to the paper which was not in a position for Donny to see it. “They are doing it!” he repeated. He scoffed and grunted. “The bastards.”

“Who is it, Mike?”

“Who else, Donny? It’s those fat bastards who’ve done everything else! They’ve done everything!” 

“What have they done?”

“Do you pay attention to anything, Donny?! They’ve finally done it, the bastards.”

“Is it bad?”

“Bad? It’s goddamn terrible, you idiot! It’s the worst thing that they’ve done yet! Say goodbye to the neighborhood.” Mike saluted to the white walls of the room. 

“What can we do?” Donny said, concern growing in his voice. 

“Nothing,” said Mike, absolutely. 

“Can I see?” Donny reached for the paper, but it was snatched back up in the large man’s hands.

“I’m not done reading it,” Mike said. “I’ll tell you if there is anything else you need to know.” He went back to reading, occasionally scoffing.

Donny turned in his chair and looked back at the clock. 

The water in the room had reached the men’s ankles. 

“Did we have something going on today?” Donny asked. “I can’t seem to remember.”

“It’s probably nothing.”

“I’d hate to be late to a party. That would be very rude.”

“No parties today. Not with all this going on!” Mike smacked the paper with the back of his hand. 

“Oh no, is it New Year’s? I can’t believe it's been another year already.”

“You said that last year, too.”

The two were quiet for a moment longer before Donny turned back to the circular table. 

“You want to play cards, Mike? I could go for a game.”

“I suppose it’s better than nothing,” Mike said and set his newspaper down. “What did you have in mind?”

Donny took the deck of cards out of the box and began to shuffle. “We could play a nice game of poker,” he suggested. 

“We have nothing to bet with, you dumbass.” 

“How about some war then? 

“That's a game for children!”

“Cribbage sounds nice! It’s been a while since I’ve played.”

“With no board and pegs? No thank you.”

“Pinochle?” 

“Only people older than my mother play pinochle, and she's been dead ten years.”

“Blackjack?”

“That’s a game for children!”

“How about Go Fish then?” 

“Forget it, Donny! If you don't want to play a real game of cards then we won't play.” Mike picked the paper back up. 

Donny put the cards away and quietly turned back to the clock. 

The water in the room had risen to their waists before Donny spoke again. 

“Maybe it’s just a clock. It might just be counting the hours backwards by the minute.”

 There was a muted snap as the chair Mike was sitting on collapsed under a broken leg, and he fell into the water. 

“Sonuva bitch!” he cursed, standing again. “They just make these things out of cheap material these days.” He picked up the broken leg from the water and shook it at Donny. “No good craftsmanship anymore, I swear. Just make it overseas in some factory for cheap.”

“Who makes them, Mike?”

“Who else Donny?!” Mike threw the chair leg across the room. It bounced off the wall and landed in the water with a slight splash. “Those bastards.” He turned back to Donny. “They take good paying jobs from hard working people like us and send them to some sweatshop for pennies! Don’t they know those are our jobs they are taking from us?”

“Who’s taking them, Mike?”

“Donny are you listening to a damn thing I’m saying? The sweatshops, for Christ’s sake! Those bastards.” He walked over to Donny, trudging through the water. “Hey, Don, lemme sit in the chair, will ya?” His voice was much friendlier.

“My chair, Mike?” 

“Well what do you expect me to do? Stand around? You know I’ve got a bad leg.” 

“Oh, well I guess.” Donny stood up and offered Mike the chair. 

Mike sunk down into the water, finding the seat of the chair, everything below his chest submerged. He grabbed for his paper, which was now floating on the water. It tore in his hands as he pulled it open. Mike dopped the decaying scraps. 

“Do you want a drink, Mike?” Donny asked, walking towards the small cooler in the corner of the room, bobbing underwater.

“Donny, you know I don't drink anymore.”

“We’ve got some lemonade, I think.” 

“Sure, I’ll take a glass. It’s hot as Satan’s crack in here.”

Donny lifted the cooler from the water and opened the lid, water pouring out of it. He produced a small pitcher full of water and a couple glasses. He grinned and hoisted them to Mike to show before swimming back, and pouring them both a glass. Mike’s arm lifted out of the water and accepted it, bringing the cup to his mouth that was now just above the surface of the water. 

Donny, treading water, turned back to look at the clock.

Mike fell into the water again as the chair beneath him broke, and he was submerged. 

Donny took a drink. 

“Say, Mike,” he said. 

Mike surfaced, coughing. 

“You think the clock is telling us when someone is going to let us out?